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Aman-Jalil personally escorted Arif to the bedroom, respectfully supporting him by the elbow; he was very drunk.

– Let’s have a drink! – Arif proposed soberly, as if he hadn’t drunk so much just at the feast. – I have some whiskey; the Saxon chief sends it in exchange for cognac, stronger than vodka, but the taste is peculiar, you have to get used to it.

– If necessary, I’m ready! – Aman-Jalil responded seriously.

– Ready is good! – Arif smirked.

Aman-Jalil looked Arif straight in the eyes, not averting his gaze, with devoted and serious readiness. Arif took a bottle of whiskey from his suitcase, opened it, and poured it into glasses.

– With ice or will you dilute it with water?

– To be honest with you, dear guest, I’ve never drunk this whiskey, I can’t know! – Aman-Jalil admitted honestly.

– Ice is better, throw in a couple of cubes! – advised Arif, pushing a bowl of crushed ice towards Aman-Jalil.

All these preparations foretold a long conversation. Aman-Jalil was ready for it, and Arif wasn’t in a hurry, waiting for something, sizing up, appraising… He took out a bar of Swiss chocolate, broke it into pieces, so hospitably offered it to Aman-Jalil that his legs started to feel cold.

– Well, tell me! – Arif quietly suggested.

– What do you wish to know? – Aman-Jalil agreed readily.

– How you killed Sardar Ali and the witnesses?..

Aman-Jalil’s vision darkened and his breath caught. "Death, death!" – pounded in his temples. He decided to go all-in.

– You, comrade, are obviously interested in the details?

– Not the details. Everything!… Who ordered it… well, you know everything yourself, – Arif grumbled angrily, lighting a cigar with a golden band "Havana."

– Sardar Kareem conducted his own investigation into Ahmed’s affairs, and Ahmed instructed me to deal with him. We didn’t intend to kill him, just wanted to squeeze his throat… I succeeded, you saw the photos, they’re genuine, but Sardar Kareem didn’t give up, rushed into the Emir’s palace. As you understand, if he had managed to pass the papers through Nadir to Iosif Besarionis, our one and only father and teacher, Ahmed would have been finished, and hence, me even earlier. No need to tell you, comrade, but this couldn’t be allowed. We were lucky. Nadir wasn’t home. We kept an eye on Sardar Ali all the time and got rid of him quietly: we rented rooms nearby, and in the morning, when he settled down and fell asleep, unlocked the door, chloroformed his face so he wouldn’t scream, and threw him out the window into the courtyard. A painless death, like in a dream.